


Asimov’s Integral

by sElkieNight60



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: (He Comes Back To Life), (It's Jason Just FYI), A.I. (2001) AU, Android Jason Todd, Android Tim Drake, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne's Average Parenting, Bruce Wayne's Grief, Child Abuse Is Alluded To, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Revival, Referenced Child Neglect, Robot AU, Se.N, Tim Drake Angst, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake Whump, Tim Drake has Abandonment Issues for Good Reason, Tim Drake-centric, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-21 18:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30026058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: Tim is an unwanted android, a Robo-Child. After being sent back by his parents, his last and only hope rests in the hands of a man still grieving the loss of his own son.“I didn’t ask for a replacement,” Bruce barked. “I don’t want a replacement! You can go back and tell the RCO I don’t need a replacement.”Bruce Wayne didn’t want him. If Bruce Wayne didn’t want him, he’d be sent back and dismantled.
Relationships: Background Tim Drake & Alfred Pennyworth, Background Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Background Tim Drake & Jason Todd, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 198
Kudos: 382





	1. Cognizance Opt

CHAPTER ONE

Standing on the front porch of Wayne Manor gripping his suitcase like a shield protecting him from whatever unimaginable horrors awaited him was not how Tim had intended to greet the narrowed, unrepentantly disgusted eyes of Bruce Wayne.

With a racing heart and an equally as terrified mind, he tried to breathe deeply. Whoever programmed his fear subroutine was a sadist, he knew that for sure.

The man was dressed in slacks and an unwashed black hoodie. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days. His hair stuck up at all angles and he looked furious at having to answer the door. Tim shrank back, feeling nervous and small, dwarfed by the man before him.

_ “What do you want?”  _ he snapped, dark circles more prominent as he squinted against the dying rays of the afternoon sun.

Tim swallowed thickly and tried not to let his hands tremble too much around his suitcase. “I’m sorry, sir,” he began, starting with an apology. “The RCO sent me—I’m your new A.I. Companion.”

Bruce Wayne blinked at him fiercely, words setting in. Then, his face clouded over darkly.

“I didn’t  _ ask  _ for a replacement,” he barked. “I don’t  _ want  _ a replacement! You can go back and tell the RCO I don’t need a replacement.”

Tim’s cybernetic heart, beating in his chest, felt like it had done a circular lap from his stomach to his throat to his stomach again.

_ Bruce Wayne didn’t want him.  _ If Bruce Wayne didn’t want him, he’d be sent back and dismantled.

Thirteen years it had taken him to fail his first masters, yet not even two minutes into a conversation with his new one and he was already being turned out again.

“Please, sir,” he tried, swallowing down the subroutine emotion that threatened tears. He was programmed with the social and emotional range of a thirteen year old boy, but not for the first time he wished he could disregard the subroutines inside him permanently. They brought him nothing but pain. “I promise I can stay out of your way. You… you could even deactivate me, if you so desire.”

For a man who’d been his last hope, the bitterness and anger in his eyes was like a noose around his neck. Stomach churning, fingers shaking, he held his few possessions close, as though they’d do anything against the brute force of a man three times his size.

“What don’t you understand?” Bruce Wayne seethed. The man took a step forward, twice Tim’s height and four times his bulk. “I don’t want or need a filthy robot. I had a son, his name was  _ Jason  _ and he’s  _ gone.” _

Jason. Model 30679. Tim knew him well. Or, knew well of him. A bit of an edge to him. He was a robo-child, just like Tim, but. Well, Tim didn’t have all the details, but the alert had gone out to the RCO all the same.  _ Irreparable damage,  _ or so he’d been told.

The dismissal was firm. Bruce was already turning back to head inside.

It was now or never.

Tim’s fingers found the fabric of Bruce’s hoodie without conscious thought and wound through, gripping tightly.

“Please, sir,” he begged, unable to keep the desperate whine out of his voice.

Caught by a tiny hand in his shirt, Wayne half-turned back, pinning him with a furious glare. Bruce Wayne looked cross, but he didn’t understand. Tim  _ couldn’t  _ go back. They’d destroy him, they would toss him into the incinerator and he would burn down to nothing, with nothing to show for his short miserable life.

The man’s eyes were icy cold. “Let go,” he said quietly.

Tim didn’t. “Please, I—.”

Sharp, glacial words interrupted his plea. “Let go of me.”

“I can help!” Tim blurted, almost at a shout, one hand fisting the hoodie, the other gripped around the handle of his suitcase. “I can help you fix your son!”

Silence rang like a church bell to his own funeral. The man glared down his nose coldly at Tim and sneered, but he didn’t slap his hand away.

“You can’t fix him,” he said, grief behind the anger. “I know, I’ve tried.”

Vigorously, Tim shook his head. “I can,” he insisted. “Jason and I are based on the same model. I just come with a few extra buttons, but we’re almost the same. If you need, I can help. You can use me as a blueprint to rebuild him. Please.”

A pale, thin mouth drew closed. The lines around Bruce Wayne’s face sunk deeper. The sound of summer crickets in the background was all that could be heard, a quiet sound against the backdrop of a dying sun.

Finally, after an eternity passed, the man pushed the front door wider.

“Fine. Come in,” said his new master. “Wipe your shoes and don’t track more mud in for Alfred.”

Relief flooded his every neuron, though the adrenaline continued to pound through every muscle, causing him to shake and tremble. Quickly, Tim did as he was told. He wasn’t going to be sent away. 

“Sit on the couch,” Bruce Wayne ordered, gesturing to an ornate sitting room through an egress to his left. “Alfred will take your suitcase up.”

Order given, Tim’s new master disappeared after that.

Some time later, an old mechanical butler wandered in. A kind face, an original model. The bot would be over eighty years old now, judging by the few details that gave him away. The model was an original, which meant he probably couldn’t feel pain and would not ever truly be able to become fully human. Maybe that was why Bruce Wayne kept him around.

“May I take your suitcase, Master?” the older robot asked, kindly. The lines on his skin told a story of great joy, as well as one of great sadness.

Tim nodded stiffly, unsure of where his few possessions he’d brought with him from the Drake house would go once out of his sight.

Nervous, his fingernails dug into his knees, leaving tiny crescent shaped indents on his skin. It wasn’t as though he owned very much anyway.

With permission given, the butler took his case and departed from the room. Tim heard him disappear up the stairs, then heard no more.

The house creaked and groaned.

He was alone.

Curling his hands atop his knees he sat and waited for Bruce Wayne, his new master, to return. Rebooted and back in the land of the living, he would begin to age again. Biomechanical skin would darken under the sun, his structure would take in carbon and use it to build new bones and fuel pathways. The longer he lived, the more human he would steadily become.

The Drake’s had purchased him new. Too busy for a human child, they’d opted for something lower maintenance. Tim had been with them for twelve years before Janet Drake finally decided she wanted a  _ real  _ child. They were done globe trotting and Janet and Jack wanted to settle down, finally claim Gotham as their real home, and start a family.

Robo-children weren’t supposed to be returned. If they were, they were usually incinerated. No one wanted a second-hand robo-child, after all. Tim was a used good. Why opt for an old model when you could just buy one brand new for a cheaper price?

The rejection had almost broken him altogether.

Then, the company had received a notification—a product had malfunctioned, irreparably, and Tim had been given a second chance. They didn’t want to waste a new product if the malfunction had been intentionally caused, after all, and if Tim showed up with the same issue, they would know it was human error and not an issue with their models.

Tim didn’t want to die.

So, he’d gone, willing, eager. It was a second chance, a second home. A second  _ life. _

Quietly, patiently, he waited on the couch as the sun dipped lower and lower behind the horizon. The moon came out and still there was no sign of his new master.

Tim had been told to wait. He couldn’t deactivate. Jack Drake would have baulked at the mere thought that Tim would do something so improper when an instruction had been given.

So, Tim waited as the hours passed and the house went quiet.

Then the sun appeared again and morning rose into view, the dawn breaking. Tim’s battery was low, he needed to recharge, but Master Wayne had told him to  _ wait _ .

The Drake’s had told him to wait too. Then they’d forgotten about him. They’d left him sitting on his bed for a week. Tim’s battery had died, too scared to move under the direct order. When he’d come to, the house had been quiet. Chancing a look around the house he had determined that they’d just left. They’d left for Argentina without so much as a note or even a goodbye.

Tim wasn’t supposed to self-program, but the emergency subroutine helped. It helped him determine when he needed to eat, to sleep, to bathe. No one was around to help him with these things. The subroutines were supposed to be learned and integrated over time. Robo-children were blank slates, after all. They learned what their parents taught. The Drake’s had never really stayed long enough to teach him anything. Tim had been forced to learn it all on his own.

The emergency subroutine was blaring at him now. Tim forced himself to ignore it. This wasn’t the Drake’s and he was on thin ice already. If he disobeyed, Bruce Wayne was sure to send him back and Tim would… he’d be incinerated.

From two rooms over, he heard a heavy thud. Flinching sharply, Tim jumped at the unexpected noise.

The house went back to quiet and undisturbed. Like a mausoleum. 

A quick and tumultuous debate roiled under the surface of his skin—to venture out of the room and discover the source of the noise, or to stay put as ordered. 

After too many years on his own, the former won out.

Slowly, Tim slipped silently off the couch and began to make his way toward the source of the sound. The only noises were that of his soft breathing and the dull click-clack of his shoes across the hall runner. 

From one egress to the other, he passed into what looked like a dining room and peered around the entranceway, clutching at the skirtings that ran up the length of the frame.

There was Master Bruce. 

The man appeared to have collapsed on the floor. Humans weren’t supposed to do that.

Tim rushed in, kneeling by the side of the unconscious man.

“Sir,” he tried, rolling his new owner onto his side.  _ “Sir,  _ wake up sir!”

Two eyes fluttered open, just as many dark rings around them if not more, than there had been yesterday. Exhaustion, determined Tim.

Bruce groaned. “What… what happened?”

Tim rocked back on his heels with a sigh of relief. “You collapsed, sir.”

The man ran a hand through his hair and stared down at the carpet as he raised himself into a sitting position. After a few minutes, narrowed eyes darted over.

“You’re the new one, aren’t you?” he asked, curtly. 

Tim nodded, haltingly. “Y-yes, sir. Serial 30823.”

Bruce Wayne blinked, suspicious. Then, “was what you said yesterday true? Can you really help me fix my son?”

Not even for a moment did Tim believe Bruce would keep him if he couldn’t. “Yes, sir,” he answered again. “I can help.”

A lengthy pause stood between them.

“What’s your name?” his new master asked. “You know, not your serial, your name.”

Tim smiled as politely as he could manage and extended a hand. “Tim,” he greeted the man. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I look forward to being your new robo-child.”

The man scoffed, loudly and derisively, and a finger came down squarely in the center of Tim’s chest, rough enough that it almost pushed him back hard enough to send him sprawling onto the floor.

“Let’s get one thing straight,  _ Tim,”  _ he sneered as Tim’s smile fell along with his hand. “You are not, nor will you ever be my child. You are  _ not  _ Jason and you are  _ not  _ Dick and you are  _ not  _ my son. You are a piece of equipment and your life here extends as long as your usefulness does.”

Something in Tim’s chest cavity constricted painfully. He’d hoped… well, he had obviously been stupid. He should have worked this much out for himself, based on their first meeting.

Limply, his hand fell away to his side. A year, at most, then. That was how long Tim would have to live.

The thing about robo-children, however, was that the laws of robotics still applied.

One: a robot could not injure a human or through inaction allow harm to come to a human.

Two: a robot had to obey all orders given by a human except where they would conflict with the first.

Three: a robot had to protect its own existence except in the case where the rule would conflict with the first two laws.

Except, in this case, whatever action he took would eventually lead to his own demise. Maybe it was selfish and arrogant to say he could help Bruce fix his son. Maybe it was simply his programming to try and exist as long as possible. Whatever the case was, it was clear he would reach his end before the year drew to a close.

Briefly, Tim looked out the enormous window to his right and caught a glimpse of the summer sun beginning to peek through the trees.

Never before had he thought to appreciate it. Only a year ago he’d thought he would have endless time to enjoy it. Now he knew. This would be the last summer of his short life.

Finally, he looked back to the man sitting on the floor in front of him and gave a jerky nod.

“I understand, sir,” he said solemnly. “I will do my best to serve you for as long as I am in a capacity to do so.”

Bruce snorted, pushing up off the floor with one hand. “Just do this one thing for me, Tim,” he said, suddenly looming, all shadows and sharp edges. “Don’t act like you’re a human. You’re not.”

For once in his life, Tim didn’t know what to make of such words. Not once had he ever been under the illusion he was human. The Drake’s had never treated him as a child, but as a tool, something to watch the house while they were away and  _ play  _ house with while they were home in Gotham for three weeks of the year.

Tim had never been human. Just a tool. Never a child, never a son, just a tool.

“I understand, Master Bruce,” he answered again, rising to stand on his own two feet. “I am a tool and will be used as such until I am no longer required.”

The man looked down at him a moment, then nodded.

“Alfred will show you to your room,” was all he said. Then, he disappeared into the hall. Turning the corner, he was lost to Tim’s sight.

The robot butler appeared in his place. 

“Shall I show you to your room now, Master Tim?” he asked, a soft smile on his withered old face, eyes that didn’t look remotely human, but showed warmth nonetheless.

The tears were lopping off his chin before he could even begin to nod his head. Oh, how he hated subroutines.

The butler cocked his head and pulled out a handkerchief.

“There, there, Master Tim,” he consoled, passing it over. “Nothing to cry over now.”

Quickly, he dabbed at his eyes and continued to nod. The butler was an older model and therefore did not have the capacity to feel to the same degree Tim did, but he knew the old man's words were sound. It wouldn’t do to cry right after Master Wayne had  _ explicitly  _ ordered him not to act or pretend like he was human, it was just… Tim didn’t quite know how to turn it off. Lord, if he’d had the ability to, he would have done so a long time ago.

“I’m s-sorry, sir,” he hiccuped out in return, only able to sob harder, muffling the noise in the handkerchief. “I don’t know how to make it  _ s-stop _ .”

The butler led him out the dining room, down the hall and then up the stairs and down an even longer hall. They passed many closed doors, so many that Tim wasn’t sure he’d even be able to make it back to the dining room again without help.

“It’s alright, Master Tim,” he reassured. “And please, call me Alfred. Keep the handkerchief, I get the feeling you will need it more than I.”

Eventually, they arrived at the door to a room that turned out to be almost the same size as a literal broom cupboard. There was about three square feet of standing space between the bed and the drawers. Tim’s suitcase sat on the floor by the foot of his bed.

“Thank you, Alfred,” he said, to which the old man nodded.

“Of course,” he said. “If I can be of assistance in any other way, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

With that, the older robot departed back down the hall from the way they’d come.

Tim closed the door behind him, then turned and looked around the room.

The suitcase on his bed should have been the first piece of business. He should put his clothes away so they weren’t in the way, but his battery was showing red and his heart ached with the newfound knowledge that he wouldn’t even last a year here.

Tim fell face first into the pillow and silently cried himself to sleep.

Tomorrow was a new day, but today was for grieving the death of Tim Drake, because when the time truly came to do so, he knew no one would.

* * *

Alfred came to collect him the next morning for breakfast. After more than a solid twenty-four hours sleep he was well rested, but his bionutrients were low.

The old butler led him back down to the dining room, but this time Tim tried his hardest to pay attention to which twists and turns they took.

Fully expecting to eat alone, it was immeasurably surprising to find Bruce Wayne sitting at the other end of the table, already pouring over a newspaper and sipping from a mug of coffee.

Not daring to utter a single word, nervous and definitely afraid of toeing over the line where his new master was concerned, Tim slipped into the seat at the other end, where a place had already been set for him.

Alfred served pancakes to them both, which Tim all but inhaled and Bruce picked at leisurely, never deigning to even look Tim in the eye for the entirety of breakfast.

Once he was finished, he sat quietly and waited to be dismissed, as he would at the Drake house.

The dismissal never came. Bruce picked his way through breakfast, then, once finished, lowered his paper and glared over the rim of it at Tim.

“Is there a reason you’re still here?” he asked, an edge to his tone.

Tim’s mouth opened and closed on its own. Finally he shook his head. Bruce quirked an eyebrow, then raised his paper once again. Tim took that as his cue.

Clearing his place, he carried his dishes into the kitchen where Alfred was already warming up hot water for washing.

“Thank you, Master Tim,” he smiled as they were passed over. “Though, you do not have to clear the table for me, I am perfectly capable of doing so myself.”

In return, Tim shrugged. “I’d like to be useful, if you’ll allow it.”

Alfred dropped a soft look his way. “Alright then,” he quietly returned. “Would you mind fetching Master Bruce’s dishes as well, then?”

At the request, his heart flew into his throat. 

Bruce Wayne didn’t look like a man who would  _ hit  _ him if he got too close, but he wasn’t exactly fond of Tim either.

Jack Drake had knocked him about a couple of times when he had been in a particularly foul mood and Tim had found himself underfoot. 

Nevertheless, he inclined his head and returned to the dining room anyway, consciously keeping the tremor out of his fingers.

Master Bruce appeared unmoved.

He tried not to wring his hands as he shuffled closer.

“U-uh,” he stammered, balling his fists by his sides to stop himself from bringing his arms up to his face  _ just in case.  _ “Can I take your dishes, sir?”

One lazy eye rolled his way. Then Bruce nodded and went back to his paper.

Tim hurried to clear his master’s end of the table, breathing a sigh of relief once his laden arms passed the threshold to the kitchen.

“Thank you, lad,” Alfred acknowledged with another kindly smile. “You’re a very helpful model.”

Taking up residence on the barstool while Alfred dipped the dishes one by one into the soapy dishwater, he allowed himself a smile back.

Bruce wandered in when Alfred was nearing the end of the breakfast dishes and pinned Tim with a glare.

“Come,” he barked, then mysteriously strode from the room in one swift motion. 

Tim found himself hurrying to catch up.

“Where are we going, sir?” He asked, tottering alongside, almost two steps for every one of Bruce’s as they swept back through the dining room and into the hall.

“Downstairs,” the man replied ominously, pushing open the door to what turned out to be a lavish study.

Bafflingly, there didn’t appear to be any staircases inside the room. Still, Bruce moved with purpose, striding toward the grandfather clock tucked away in the back corner.

Tim followed silently, confused.

Bruce turned the hands on the clock until both aligned at the top and Tim heard a tiny click.

The whole clock swung away from the wall, revealing a staircase behind it. A cold wind blew up from below, ruffling Tim’s hair. It descended into shadow and darkness. 

Fear shot through him, though he tried to stamp it down. 

Master Bruce led the way without a word. Tim followed suit. 

Each footstep on the stone steps echoed, like they were descending into an enormous cavern, but it was only once they reached the bottom where Master Bruce flipped on the lights, that such suppositions were confirmed.

Tim gasped, unable to stop the wordless surprise.

The place was huge!

“This way,” Bruce instructed, marching deeper into the underground. 

He hurried to follow once more. 

They went lower into the cavern, having apparently been standing on a large rocky shelf before. Some time later, they reached a brightly lit lower level.

In the center of the room there appeared to be a medical table, and on the table there was a body laying very still. 

Bruce’s footsteps faltered the closer they got and Tim didn’t need an introduction to know whose pale face could be seen laying still as death there, but he got one anyway. 

“This is Jason,” Bruce whispered, taking up the sole seat by the bedside. A large, calloused hand darted out to brush back the boy’s bangs. There was so much tenderness there, he noted.

The robo-child on the table was burned in places, skin tissue missing, an arm entirely amputated from his body. Had Jason been conscious, he would be screaming in pain. The neurons that connected to his fingers would be sending agonizing signals, unable to operate or function correctly.

“I’ve already begun the creation of new tissue,” Bruce said, scooting his chair closer with one hand and gesturing behind him with the other. Tim could make out a series of microscopes and what appeared to be petri dishes on the counter in the far corner. “But the internal engineering is… complex.”

With careful fingers, Bruce pressed a button behind Jason’s right ear and Tim heard a tiny click. Then, where the boy’s chest was, the skin began to fold away, revealing only mechanical components beneath.

The inside of Jason was more of a mess than the outside.

The problem was immediately obvious.

“He’s missing a heart!” Tim blurted. Where the central mechanical pump should have been there was nothing but empty space.

Thin lips pressed into a white line as Bruce dipped his head to the table, one hand gripping Jason’s good arm tightly as he went.

“I know,” he returned softly, almost at a whisper. “What little was left when I got to him was damaged beyond repair.”

Tim didn’t want to pry or upset his new master in any way, so he didn’t ask, but the confusion must have appeared obvious on his face anyway.

“There was an explosion,” began Bruce, “The Joker. Jason was… The Joker took a crowbar to his heart.”

Tim cocked an eyebrow. “Why would he do that?”

Bruce shook his head in return. “The man’s a psychopath,” he answered, voice breaking with grief. “I’ve not been able to create a new one.”

Glancing down at Jason again, Tim inspected the rest of the damage. The rest could be healed. Skin, wires, the turning parts inside the child could be fixed, but the heart? The heart of a robo-child was the most closely guarded secret of RCO. There was no way Bruce was ever getting his hands on a new one.

“We’re going to have to make him a new heart,” he decided finally, throwing his hands on his hips. “It won’t be any good until the rest of him is fixed, though. If he’s revived in his current state, he’ll simply go into shock—the subroutines will make sure of it.”

The spark of hope that glinted in his new master’s eye did not go unmissed.

“I’ve already begun synthesizing new skin. I have a doctor, Leslie Thompkins, who has agreed to graft it for me once it’s completed.”

That solved one problem.

“The tangled wires?” There looked to be some progress there, if nowhere else. Jason had been dead only for a week, according to RCO’s files. If Bruce had done this on his own, it was either testament to his grief or skill or both. Regardless, it was an impressive feat.

“Those I have begun to reconstruct,” his master answered plainly. “But his heart is the real problem.”

Tim nodded. He knew it would be.

“I’ve created a prototype,” Bruce continued, pushing his stool back roughly to stand and beckoning Tim to follow. “It’s over here.”

Scampering around the table, he followed Bruce past the microscopes and petri dishes and into a second room. 

The smaller room was illuminated by a single light, a workshop, or so it seemed. Bits and bobs were scattered about the place, so much so that there seemed to be a single path to the desk.

On that desk, sat a mechanical heart.

Master Bruce picked it up and threw it to Tim, who fumbled the catch, but somehow managed not to drop it. Then, the man sagged into the chair.

“It doesn’t work,” he sighed, an edge of defeat in his voice as he casually gestured at the metal object between Tim’s palms. “I’ve already tried.”

That was probably a good thing, given that Jason would have gone straight into shock  _ had  _ the heart worked, but Tim was here now. He would make sure that Bruce would not make such a mistake again.

“It’s heavy,” he said, weighing it in his hand with surprise. He was sure his own heart was not so heavy.

Bruce sighed. “I don’t know how to make it lighter.”

Tim turned it over, it seemed to have all the correct parts. So then why wasn’t it working?

Carefully, Tim trod the small path to the desk and passed it back to Bruce. 

Now he understood why his new master had let him in. What the exact issue he needed fixing was. He could help Bruce, that was his new job. He could help the man by providing his heart.

Tim began by undoing the buttons on his shirt. In return he was pinned with a look of confusion.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asked, puzzled, hand clenching around the still, mechanical heart in his hand.

He paused and swallowed thickly, clearing his throat. Voice trembling ever so slightly as he spoke.

“In order to fix Jason’s new heart,” he quavered softly. “Won’t you need to look at a working one?”

Master Bruce blinked, still as a stone while a new thought settled in around him like a rising tide.

“Oh,” he grunted flatly. “Yes. I suppose that would be useful.”

Swift to remove his shirt now that his intentions were clear, he went for the button behind his right ear next.

Chest clicking open with the same dull noise that Jason’s had made earlier, Tim’s external components slid away to reveal what lay underneath.

Master Bruce stared for a long minute, appearing utterly amazed as Tim’s mechanical heart beat away, firing sensation after sensation. Then the man scooted closer and looked up at him.

“Doesn’t.” He began, then cleared his throat. “Does that hurt?”

“What?” asked Tim, confused. “My heart?”

Bruce nodded, a furrow of perplexity on his own brow.

“Jason…” he said, trailing off. He started anew. “Jason always said he could feel pain. Do you not?”

Tim smiled tightly at him. “I do,” he returned. “But the designers needed to be able to get inside the prototypes for servicing—it was a feature they just left in. A robot should be able to open their chest cavity for servicing at any time.”

The man eyed him again, squinting up. “So this,” he gestured towards Tim’s open insides. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No, not at all,” he lied with a tight smile. For as long as Bruce needed him, he would suffer gladly.

Sitting back in his chair, he watched Tim’s mechanical heart beat away in fascination and awe. “This changes everything,” Bruce whispered, running a hand over his mouth and chin. “This changes everything.”

* * *

A new routine was soon set.

Every morning after breakfast, Tim would follow Bruce down to the cave to help the man with his repairs on Jason. Often, he would either help Bruce fix the wiring inside his son, or sit on a stool while his master poked around his insides, sketching his heart and the parts that connected to it until he was able to work out a design for a new prototype.

The next step of building it was all on Bruce.

Afternoons were spent in his room if alone, or in the library, if Master Bruce was simply too tired to work on Jason’s lifeless body.

Scrabble was a favorite game of Bruce’s and he would more often than not wipe the board clean with Tim.

“That’s not a word!” Tim pouted at the fifty point  _ Tmesis  _ that sat squarely over the triple word score, one afternoon.

Bruce grinned. “Unfortunately, it is.”

Tim folded his arms over his chest. “We should have played chess,” he mumbled. “I can beat you at chess.”

It drew a short chuckle from the man. “That’s why we can’t play,” he said. “Why bother to practice something you’re already good at?”

_ Why bother with anything at all then,  _ Tim didn’t say, wondering at what point his master thought he would need  _ Scrabble  _ after he left the manor. It was like he didn’t know—or  _ want to know _ —the truth. Honestly, Tim couldn’t blame him; he was so tired of trying so hard and procuring fruitless results. It was almost easier to have a deadline, a date for his end.

The days were counting down one by one. Like a mountain to the seasons, he remained entirely unchanged as the world trudged on around him. Step by step they were leading him to his demise. With every day that Tim reprogrammed Jason’s subroutines or worked on his hardware, the closer his time drew to a close.

Game finished, Tim began to clear the board. Bruce removed his glasses from his face and rubbed his eyes with the pads of his palms.

“Are you tired, sir?” he asked softly, dropping the plastic letters into their velvet bag. They clicked against one another, satisfyingly.

Bruce made a huffing noise. “I suppose,” he said upon removing his hands. The man looked toward the gardens through the window. “Jason is challenging me. I feel guilty for needing a break.”

The gentle smile he shot Bruce’s way was not returned, but that was okay, because it never was.

“We all need a break sometimes, sir,” he assured, a gentle undercurrent of fondness that he was careful not to make too obvious.

Bruce said nothing, but continued to stare out the window.

Tim put the board away. Closing the lid on the game box, he stood and returned it to its rightful place on the sideboard.

Master Bruce was still pensive when he turned around. 

Tim caught his lower lip between his teeth, suddenly unsure of what to say. Awkwardly, he shuffled from one foot to the other. Some days it was so easy to know what to do for the man, others he had no clue what was needed from him.

“Would a walk around the gardens help clear your mind, perhaps?” he tried, still far enough away that if the suggestion made Bruce angry, he would be out of arm's reach. 

Jack Drake had always made known his anger in rather physical ways. Tim’s new master wasn’t like that, but the subroutine was already well learned. It would take time to undo it.

In response, Bruce simply hummed. Then, “Yes. Yes, perhaps.”

Rising, the man eased out of the leather armchair as he placed his eyeglasses in his shirt pocket then turned an eye Tim’s way. 

“You might be right,” he declared, free now from the pensive thoughts of before. “Fresh air might do me some good. You shall accompany me around the grounds.”

As with most actions he took, Bruce departed from the room purposefully.

As always, it left Tim jogging to catch up before his master was too far ahead.

By the time he reached him in the foyer, Bruce was already layering up with a light coat, which Alfred was helping him into.

“Fall soon,” he said casually as Tim appeared, turning down the collar on his grey fleece, a pair of black leather gloves clutched in hand. “It gets cold here.”

Tim nodded. He knew that. His…  _ not  _ parents lived just up the hill from here.

“You may bring your coat down to the foyer if you like,” Bruce continued, not looking at him as he pulled on gloves. “Saves you from running upstairs to get it.”

He. He didn’t have a coat. Tim looked away awkwardly and nodded, neck stiff and ears reddening.

“ _ Well _ ,” Bruce said, insistently, voice brooking no patience though there was never so much as a glance in his direction. “Hurry along now, go fetch it.”

“Sir,” he blurted, dropping his gaze to his feet out of shame. “Sir, I do not have a coat.”

Halfway through pulling on his second glove, his master paused. The man looked up. Tim felt his cheeks flame hotly with embarrassment.

Not having a coat wasn’t something he could control, but it meant he was being an inconvenience to his master. Janet and Jack had drilled into him long ago that being an inconvenience was the absolute worst thing he could be.

Bruce’s voice was level and low when he replied. “I see,” was all he said.

Tim balled his hands into fists to keep them from trembling. “I’m sorry.” He whispered out his apology.

It was waved off easily.

“No matter,” his master replied. “You may wear Dick’s for now.”

Tim was quick to hurry over and pluck the permissible coat from its hook. Alfred helped him into it, though it swamped him entirely. Then, he shoved his hands in his pockets in place of gloves and scampered to catch up to Bruce, who was already exiting.

Alfred bid them a nice walk before closing the door, leaving Tim alone once more in Bruce’s towering presence. They walked alongside one another. 

Tim noted that more and more leaves were beginning to turn in shade.

“I always hated fall,” Bruce said out of nowhere, quickly stooping to pluck one of the brown, fallen leaves off the ground. “I hated how it signaled change.”

Breath making mist in the cold, Tim glanced over curiously. 

“Not winter?” he asked, kicking a leaf and watching the wind catch it a moment before depositing it back on the ground.

Bruce shook his head and released the leaf between his fingers, where the wind caught it too and blew it somewhere far behind them.

“No,” he said. “Winter is a time for stillness. It knows it is a time for sleep, a time for quiet. But fall? Fall cannot decide if it wants to be still and quiet or bright and lively, like summer.

They reached the bridge over the lake, Tim’s foot touching wood instead of gravel or wet grass. Four swans sat on the lake, their heads tucked under their wings or curved sleepily downwards. The lake glistened where the afternoon sun struck, from which mist rose into the cool air.

“Change can be good,” he hedged quietly, glancing out toward the willow tree on the bank, a family of ducks quacking noisily at each other beneath it. “I don’t mind change. I’m all too predisposed to stagnation, being what I am.”

Bruce paused a little way ahead and looked back at him, curiously. It only served to make Tim realise he’d stopped to stare at the scenery.

His master said nothing in reply, so he continued.

“Change is inherently human,” he said. “To change is to live.”

A few paces later, he heard a grunt. “Maybe that is true,” answered Bruce. “But I still do not like it.”   
  
Tim laughed. “You do not have to like it, sir,” he said, catching only the tail end of the light looking expression upon the man’s face. “Change will come for you whether you want it to or not.”


	2. Gravity, Solidified

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't going to post this until Saturday, but I have no self-control.

CHAPTER TWO

A buoy in the ocean, Tim bobbed through his days as Fall came then went. Winter bore down with a vengeance only Gotham could muster, her icy vendetta frosting up Tim’s window and eliciting complaints from both Bruce and Alfred about their joints.

Most days were spent in the cave side by side with Bruce, repairing crossed wires and generally working on Jason’s battered body until he was all but new again. 

More often than not Bruce would work in complete silence, which Tim filled with happy chirps and chatter. On the odd occasion, the man would pipe up, adding to the stream of consciousness and turning it into a dialogue.

Slowly but surely, over the course of a few months, the fraught tension in Master Bruce’s shoulders eased. His demeanour drew softer around the edges, harsh angles becoming slight curves. Once every blue moon, Tim would say something to earn a very faint, soft look. Not a smile, never a smile, but his eyes would lose their scornful, ostensible scowl. Tim began actively seeking out that warmth. It didn’t matter how. There was little joy in his master’s life, but if Tim could be a bright spot in it for only a day, he would walk the path to his own end happily.

A woman appeared at the front door one day. One Doctor Leslie Thompkins, who was there to perform several skin grafting surgeries over the course of a few weeks.

With nothing else to do and no one else to talk to, Tim often meandered down to the cave to watch her work. Nimble fingers repaired and replaced burnt tissue with new skin. Unlike Bruce, she seemed to enjoy his company, happy to keep up a lively conversation about almost anything.

One week before Christmas, she declared her work finished, wiping away sweat on her brow with her arm as she stripped off her latex gloves with a pleased smile. Bruce leapt to his feet and hurried over to inspect her work while Tim hung back, unsure.

It was easy to see the relief and the love in his eyes as he wandered over Jason’s still form, hands hovering yet not daring to touch the still fragile, unmoved boy.

His master’s voice was thick as he thanked Doctor Thompkins for her hard work, a watery smile pulled from somewhere deep.

She patted him lightly on the shoulder, but when that didn’t seem to be enough, she drew him into a tight hug. Her hair obscured whatever quiet exchange they had.

In the corner, Tim maybe thought they’d forgotten about him. Maybe that was for the best. He drew into a small ball as he saw Doctor Thompkins pull back. 

“Bring our boy back now,” she said. “You hear?”

Bruce nodded. 

Tim felt as though he was intruding on an intensely personal moment. It wasn’t something he was supposed to see.

The doctor left. Tim made sure to give her his own tight hug before she did so. Her hand was nice when it brushed through his hair, his arms wrapped around her waist. It would have been nice to be  _ her  _ robot companion, but no matter how hard Tim wished it to be so, he sincerely doubted she’d want a used model—especially not one who’d already passed through the hands of two different owners already. So he stayed silent and did his best to convey how much he’d miss her through the one brief hug he was allowed.

After that day, Jason was hooked up to a feeding tube. The nutrients would help his skin rejuvenate. The wan color of the boy’s skin started to fade and if Tim hadn’t known any better, he might have though Jason was simply sleeping.

It was the start of the end. 

There were days in-between where Tim would wonder what the boy would be like when he woke up. Sure, he’d read the file at RCO, seen the design specs, but he sincerely doubted looking at code and hardware really gave him a full picture of the kid Bruce loved so much. 

There were bits and pieces he’d managed to pick up over the months, whenever he could get more than two sentences out of Bruce about the kid. Jason had been kind, even if somewhat rough around the edges, and was programmed with a street-alley lilt to his tone.

Inevitably, whenever Bruce started down a tangent, his soft rumble almost doing enough to put Tim to sleep, he’d begin to wonder if he and Jason would get on. Then, like an icy bucket of water over his head, his brain would sharply remind him that he wouldn’t ever get the chance to know. Jason would grow and age, while Tim would not. 

Once Jason had a heart, he would be whole and complete again. Bruce would no longer need Tim’s services and he would be returned to the RCO and… and that would be that.

It was just three days before Christmas that an unexpected surprise showed up on the Wayne Family front door.

“Hi Alfie,” the bedraggled man sighed wearily, coming in from the wintery weather outside. “Good to see you.

A scarf and coat was passed over to the older robot, who took them easily and with a merry smile.

Alfred inclined his head. “And you as well, Master Richard. You look well.”

The human male— _ Richard,  _ Alfred had called him—chuckled lightly and was halfway through a sentence about having been better when he spotted Tim hiding behind the robot butler and froze mid-phrase.

The tentative happiness flooded out Tim instantly.

A glacial expression to rival the growing snowstorm outside passed over the young man’s face. It reminded Tim a little of Bruce, the two men seemed very alike.

“And who is this?” Richard asked frigidly, glaring down his nose. 

Tim tried hunching over, an attempt at making himself as small of a target as possible. It was a stark reminder that he’d made himself too comfortable here.

With a bracing breath, he stuck out his hand.

“Hello,” he greeted faintly. “I’m Tim.”

Behind him, the study door quietly opened and closed.

The proffered hand was not taken. 

Instead, two cold blue eyes shot up and pinned their piercing stare on the shadow coming up behind Tim.

“A new one. Already?” Richard said, coolly. “My brother died less than six months ago and you’re already adopting new robo-children?”

Bruce pulled up beside him and Tim caught him raising two placating hands. Culpability surged into Tim’s throat.

“I’m not adopting him,” Bruce reassured. “He’s here to help me  _ fix  _ Jason.”

_ “Fix Jason?”  _ Richard yelled, running a hand through his hair with a hysterical little laugh. “Bruce you’re out of your goddamn mind. Jason can’t be fixed! He—he’s gone, B.”

A light tapping finger jerked Tim out of the conversation. It was Alfred and that was his cue. With a small  _ follow me  _ gesture, the butler led them from the room.

“Best leave them to it,” he heard the man say, right before Bruce’s voice exploded in the hall, loud enough to make Tim flinch violently.

Alfred sighed. “They’ll be at it for a good hour now.”

“I’m sorry,” Tim mumbled, wrapping his arms around his middle. He felt sick. This was all his fault.

“Nonsense, my boy,” Alfred smiled softly in return. “But you’d best run along to your room now, it might be wise.”

Numbly, he nodded, and took the narrow servants passage to the second floor, exiting into the upper hall.

Once secure in his bedroom, Tim holed up with the downstairs library’s copy of  _ The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.  _ Contently, he thumbed through the pages, getting lost in the story and wishing more dearly than anything that he might find Narnia in the back of one of the manor’s several guest room wardrobes.

If he left for Narnia after they finished fixing Jason, he’d never have to return to the RCO. Maybe he would live a long and happy life defeating ice queens and making friends with talking lions.

Somehow, he doubted Bruce would have let him take the book if he’d seen Jason’s name scrawled at the front, but it was fine as long as he returned it when he was done, right?

Eventually, the faint sound of yelling stopped and the house fell quiet.

Carefully ensuring to bookmark his place with the handkerchief Alfred had given him, Tim slid off his bed and checked the hall both ways before creeping down to the main staircase at the end of it.

Silence rang through the cold and drafty walkway.

Fully expecting the blow out with Bruce to seal the end of what he would see of Richard, Tim pushed open the door to the kitchen and nearly jumped. Across the countertop, a body was slumped over, clutching at a mug of warm tea.

A pair of clear blue eyes shot up before he could think to flee.

At the sink, Alfred stood pleasantly, sipping at his own mug of what smelled to be peppermint.

“Ah, Master Tim,” he welcomed warmly. “There you are. I was beginning to wonder when you might come down.”

Wincing, he hurried to apologize for the intrusion.

“O-oh,” he stammered, already moving back out, gaze fixed on the blue-eyed man. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize… I’ll leave you two alone.”

Loudly, a tired sigh escaped into the room. “It’s alright, kid, you can come in,” the older man said. “I’m sorry I frightened you earlier.”

Beneath him, his feet unhelpfully stalled. Then, encouraged by Alfred’s gentle smile, Tim began to edge his way back into the room.

Curiosity drew him closer still.

“I didn’t make much of a good first impression earlier,” the man started anew, releasing one hand from around his mug to stretch it out for a handshake. “I’m Dick, it’s nice to meet you.”

Still wary of getting too close to the man, he chose a barstool apart before leaning over to shake the large palm. It was firm, warm and decidedly human.

“Tim,” he returned, swallowing hard.

The ghost of a smile appeared. 

“So, you’re helping Bruce fix Jason, huh?”

Wordlessly, he nodded.

Dick’s expression twisted with sympathy. 

“Rough job,” he commiserated. “I’m sure it’s not easy dealing with Bruce’s eccentricities day in, day out.”

A mug of hot tea appeared before him, courtesy of Alfred, who disappeared from the room only moments later. It was just his way of trying to give the two of them some space, Tim knew that, but it felt a little like being abandoned to the wolves.

Just to give his hands something to do, he wrapped his fingers around the hot ceramic and dropped his gaze to the green-tinged liquid inside.

“It’s not so bad,” he offered shyly, peeking up through his lashes.

Shock and surprise chased each other across Dick’s face before his features settled into something Tim couldn’t quite read.

They sat like that for a moment, their gazes both dropping to their respective mugs of tea.

“Bruce is… he’s a good guy,” Dick offered out of nowhere, voice quiet, but thick with emotion.

The unexpectedness of it jerked Tim from his thoughts.

Stare still making its way to the bottom of his mug, Dick didn’t so much as glance his way before sucking in a shaky breath.

“He’s a good guy,” he repeated. “He just… sometimes he finds it hard to see past his own nose.”

Tim… didn’t know what that meant exactly, but he was too afraid to ask. Instead, he simply nodded and directed his eyes back to the mug in hand.

Dick turned to him then. His mask of composure cracked, voice suddenly coarse.

“You can’t fix him, right?” he whispered, brow furrowed, eyes locked with an intensity that scared him. “Jason he… he’s gone for good, right?”

Tim felt like a beached fish, mouth opening and closing like he couldn’t get any air in at all.

“Well,” he started slowly. “If it wasn’t for his heart it would be an easy fix, but…”

Dick sighed. “But it’s not,” he deduced.

Tim’s mouth pulled into a tight, thin line. “It’s not,” he agreed. “But I don’t believe it’s impossible.”

Dick’s own mouth pressed together, his tongue briefly dipping out to wet his lips.

“So you’re saying Bruce could be right?” he asked, sounding as though he was trying very hard to keep the hope out of his tone. “You’re saying Jason could… he could come back to us?”

“A year,” came Tim’s steady reply, level in a way he did not at all feel. “I told him we would have Jason back within a year.”

Dick blinked at him. And maybe it was just the light, but Tim thought he saw blue eyes gloss over with a wet shine.

A laugh battled its way past Dick’s lips and fell without humor, though still sounded like it was riddled with something Tim couldn’t name.

“Well,” he chuckled heavily. “I suppose when Bruce sets his mind to something, he never gives up until he achieves it. I’m not sure why I thought this would be any different.”

Swallowing past the nervous lump in his throat, Tim hesitantly slipped one barstool over, close enough to gently bump shoulders with the older man and slide him a soft smile.

“I promise,” he said. “I’ll get you your brother back.”

Dick’s eyebrows arched in surprise, then dropped as the apples of his cheeks rose, pushed up and parted by a smile.

A hand made its way into Tim’s hair, ruffling it lightly.

“Hope’s a dangerous thing, Timmy,” he returned, downing the rest of his tea and pushing to his feet. “But you’re a good kid. Honest, earnest. Between you and Bruce, maybe there’s hope after all.”

* * *

Christmas wasn’t something Tim had ever celebrated before. 

Jack and Janet Drake never stayed in Gotham during winter and his Christmas routine had never before deviated from his daily routine.

Christmas was a time for family and friends, or so he’d been told. Without Jack or Janet there to spend it with him, he hadn’t bothered. From an outside perspective, it would just be sad and pathetic if he did.

It was for these reasons that having his arm captured and his whole body steered from the kitchen to the living room was so entirely unforeseen on Christmas morning.

Dick, still in his pajamas, grinned broadly at him as he maneuvered them both to the lounge.

“Merry Christmas, Timmy,” he chorused happily, spinning Tim around. “No time, tradition calls.”

“—but my breakfast,” Tim lamented loudly, to which a mug of something frothy and cold was pushed into his hands upon crossing the threshold of the lounge.

“Breakfast of champions,” Dick replied gleefully as Alfred handed him his own drink. “Eggnog!”

To his surprise, Bruce was already settled in a plush sofa seat, sipping away at his own drink with a fond look on his face.

“Merry Christmas, Tim,” he offered as Tim was pushed into an armchair, courtesy of an overly exuberant Dick.

“Good morning, sir,” he returned, suddenly and strangely nervous. “And Merry Christmas to you as well.”

Bruce dipped his head in acknowledgement, while Tim tried to stuff down the irrational anxiety he felt prickling at the nape of his neck. There was no reason for it. This day would be just like any and every other day he had spent at Wayne Manor so far. 

“Alright!” declared Dick, wiping away the frothy eggnog moustache from his upper lip that made him look a little like a poor impersonation of Alfred. “Presents!”

Like a five-year-old hyped up on caffeine, Dick scampered excitedly to the tree, pulling on a red cap with a white pompom. It earned him a fond smile from Bruce, one that tugged at something green and jealous in Tim’s heart before he swallowed it down.

It would do him no favors to be jealous of Dick, who was not only human, but Bruce’s adopted son. Their situations were entirely so far apart that he couldn’t even justify the jealousy to  _ himself. _

“Okay,  _ ho ho ho,”  _ Dick chortled, doing a poor impression of Santa Claus while he squinted at the label on the first present. “This one is for... Bruce!” 

Tucking his socked feet up beneath him, Tim sipped away at his eggnog happily. Simply being invited in for the celebrations left him content, rather than tucked away in his room—where he’d celebrated every prior Christmas at Drake Manor.

Bruce unwrapped his present, which turned out to be a lovely shaving kit from Alfred, bound in brown leather. 

The elderly robot was thanked. Bruce got up and gave him a one-armed hug, gift still clutched in hand. Tim grinned watching the exchange, amused by the slight blush that colored Alfred’s cheeks and the flustered fussing he did to cover his embarrassment.

Next, Dick pulled out a present for himself from under the tree. 

“It’s supposed to help warm up your muscles,” Master Bruce explained with no small amount of awkwardness as Dick puzzled over the lumpy cylinder he had unwrapped. “I thought it would be useful for your acrobatics class.”

Tim was sure he wasn’t the only one watching Bruce question his gift giving skills, such thoughts quite plain across his face. It eased some, though, when Dick stood up from his place on the floor and glomped his father with a fierce hug.

Two hugs before lunchtime; if Bruce received any more he might end up malfunctioning. Ironic how robotic the man seemed when he was entirely made up of flesh and blood.

Alfred was next, this time on the receiving end. A gift from Dick. Tim tried his best not to laugh when the man unwrapped an apron and matching oven mitts that read, ‘ _ not all superheroes wear capes, some wear aprons.’  _ Bruce, on the other hand, did not bother to mask his snort, earning himself the Eye of Ire from the elderly man. Dick was thanked, graciously, and given a grandfatherly pat on the shoulder.

They were down to two presents left under the tree when Tim downed the remainder of the eggnog in his enormous mug.

He nearly spat it all out again when Dick read out loud his name.

“Tim,” he announced, bouncing over. “This one's for you. From… Bruce.”

Tim froze. 

A.I. companions were advanced pieces of mechanical and scientific engineering. They were designed with the full physical and emotional spectrum in mind, they were designed to last a human lifetime without shutting down.

Yet, Tim couldn’t help but wonder if the sudden and unexpected blip was actually his whole body and brain rebooting.

Slowly, with slightly trembling fingers, he took the gold and red wrapped package from Dick, then lowered it into his lap unsteadily.

Eyes roamed up and around the room, his gaze finally settling on Bruce’s still form.

“For me, sir?” he practically whispered, glancing down once more to confirm that, yes,  _ Tim  _ was most certainly printed in neat handwriting on the label.

Bruce nodded stiffly, looking flushed.

“It’s… it’s nothing special,” he mumbled, as though embarrassed. “Just. I know you… needed one.”

Tim reverently peeled away the gold paper bit by bit to reveal the gift inside, shaking with excitement.

It was a coat. Bright. Mustard yellow. Thick, warm and gorgeous. The pockets were green and black, while the edging was a brilliant, true red. It looked brand new, never before worn, but more than that it looked handmade and expensive.

This was his first Christmas gift and it was  _ wonderful. _

Tears welled up all on their own and a half choked, broken sob escaped him. 

Bruce looked as though he suddenly wished to become one with his chair.

Tim was embarrassing him. Worse than that, Tim was  _ crying.  _ He wasn’t supposed to cry. Bruce had made clear his one rule: he wasn’t supposed to act like a human.

Uselessly, he wiped at the tears and tried to slam the gate on the unsolicited sobs.

“I’m s-sorry,” he apologized futilely, staining the end of his sleeve with tears. “I’m  _ sorry.  _ I don’t mean to cry. I just can’t shut the subroutine off.”

Dick’s face pinched in sympathy, while Alfred looked over fondly, hand twitching like he wanted to gently pat Tim on the arm.

Bruce couldn’t have looked more uncomfortable if he’d tried.

Thickly, Tim swallowed and clutched the coat tightly between his hands, overjoyed and immensely touched that Bruce had bothered at all.

“Thank you, Master Bruce,” he said happily, through a wall of wetness that slightly distorted his view of the man. “I will cherish it.”

It seemed rather pointless to him to give a robot a coat. Especially when said robot would not need the coat past winter. Nonetheless, Tim thought that he could maybe leave it behind for Jason—they seemed to be around the same size, after all. The colours seemed a deliberate choice on Bruce’s behalf, though Tim wasn’t sure what they were supposed to represent or, indeed, if they really meant anything at all past being autumnally themed.

Bruce seemed to slightly melt out of his chair at that, a small smile—maybe the very first directed at  _ Tim _ —twitching at the corners of his lips. 

“You’re very welcome,” he returned kindly, tone subdued, though not without the slight edge of awkward hesitance. His voice dipped lower. “You… it’s just Bruce,” he mumbled softly. “You don’t have to call me ‘master,’ I’m not…”

Perplexed, Tim tipped his head, but the sentence trailed away and died before he could clarify, and then the moment passed as Dick made to reach for the last present. One for Alfred from Bruce.

For twelve years Tim had existed, but without a shadow of a doubt, Tim knew he would trade all twelve for another year like this one.

* * *

It was a cold January morning when Dick left them to return to his apartment in Blüdhaven. 

Despite the rocky start to their relationship, Dick dropped a fond kiss to Tim’s crown when he went in for a rib-cracking hug and promised he would make time to visit them again soon. Tim did not put much faith in the promise, even if he knew Dick  _ wanted  _ to mean it as much as Tim wanted him to.

Life was like that though. It got busy, sometimes people forgot to come home, sometimes work overtook the less important matters.

In truth, he wasn’t expecting to see Dick again in the next six months. When the older man returned here again, it was likely that Tim would be little more than a faded memory.

It wasn’t something he held against Dick, or anyone for that matter, but it was easier to accept it now with numb resignation rather than rage against the dying light later.

It didn’t stop his moping, though. Which Alfred noticed and then, for some mysterious reason, made a point of noting to Master Bruce.

It was with visible embarrassment that Bruce shuffled awkwardly into the living room where Tim was perched with  _ A Horse and His Boy  _ atop his knee. The dusting of warmth along his cheeks had Tim initially worrying for the man’s health, at least until two pairs of ice-skates appeared from behind Bruce’s back.

“So, uh,” the man began, doing an excellent job of making eye-contact with everything in the room bar Tim. “The pond’s frozen.”

Bookmarking his page, Tim dropped his socked feet to the floor. Confused, but curious.

“Ice skating?” he deduced, dropping his book on the coffee table.

Bruce, almost laughably relieved he didn’t have to explain the purpose of the skates to a twelve-year-old android, nodded eagerly. Tim fondly mused upon the truth that, outside of the gala’s he hosted, Bruce Wayne was not a particularly loquacious individual.

“These should be your size,” the man mumbled, passing over the smaller pair of skates.

Still puzzled, Tim took them with thanks as he tried to riddle through why Bruce would want to skate with him. 

On his own, he came up blank.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the words tumbled out a moment later, completely bypassing the subroutine whose job it was to stop him from embarrassing himself or sticking his foot in his mouth. “Is there… I mean, why?”

“Hm?” The man’s eyebrows rose high enough to crinkle the ordinarily wrinkle-free forehead. “Why what?”

“Why are you taking me skating?”

The question out, Tim suddenly wished he could take it back. 

This could have been a gift horse, getting to spend time with Bruce alone outside the downstairs workshop, yet all he was doing was staring straight down the bullish horse’s oesophagus and demanding answers.

The touch of pink on Bruce’s ears went flame, heating up his entire face.

“Oh, I just… Uh… well,” he stammered, stumbling over one word then the next. His free hand came up to cup the nape of his neck while his eyes dropped to the floor. “I thought it’d make for a nice change? Good break for, uh, us both.”

The skates were blue and had a soft, woolen trim around the edge. Tim’s fingers fiddled with the fluff while his brow furrowed and dipped towards a frown. He didn’t get it, but if Bruce wanted to go skating, he wouldn’t say no. It was just… 

“I don’t know how to skate,” he admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

For a moment, he expected a flash of anger. A reprimand of some kind. An insult,  _ anything.  _ It never came. Bruce’s face simply opened wide with surprise.

“Oh, uh, that’s okay,” he nodded, leagues of patience in his voice, the kind Tim had never heard in Jack’s tone. The kind he would have been shocked to hear just six months prior from Bruce Wayne himself. “I’ll teach you.”

Departing the warmth and comfort of the house, bundled up in their jackets and coats, the two of them made their way to the pond. It was a well familiar route to Tim now, having walked it with Bruce many a time when the man was in dire need of some space to clear his head.

Bruce meandered through the snow while Tim chirped up a lively chatter and began chittering away about everything and nothing—the snow, the ice, the frigid wind, the fact that the family of robins living in the ancient oak tree were probably huddled together.

Master Bruce didn’t smile, of course, but Tim was getting better at reading the soft, almost fond expression whenever it crinkled the corners of his eyes.

They sat on the bridge to put their skates on, Bruce kneeling on the uncomfortable ice to help Tim lace up his own all the while explaining that pond ice was very different to rink ice.

Bruce did a few laps around the pond first, warming up muscles that definitely hadn’t been used since last winter, while Tim watched excitedly from the sideline, clinging to the railing of the bridge and probably looking dumbstruck by Bruce’s skills.

The man returned to his side looking slightly ruffled by the winter wind, but joyful nonetheless.

“You ready?” he asked, coming to a complete and masterful stop.

Warily, Tim nodded and took his first shaky step out onto the ice.

Bruce, apparently fully expecting him to flail and fall as his body mass shifted, caught him expertly and smirked. 

It was impossible for Tim to stop his face from falling forward, propelled straight into the man’s chest by his unbalanced weight.

“Small steps, okay?” Bruce suggested, more of an amused rumble to Tim, since his face was still mostly buried in the man’s black and grey striped scarf.

Tim felt like a baby duckling learning how to walk.

Peeling back, Bruce moved his hands down to Tim’s own and began skating slowly backwards while the younger just looked at his feet and wondered how much falling on the ice would hurt.

“That’s it,” the man praised warmly, guiding them smoothly around the pond rink. “You’re doing great.”

Tim flushed under the kindness, but tried not to let it sap his concentration.

“One foot, then the other,” Bruce murmured, “good. Good. There you go. Are you going to be okay if I let go?”

Tim baulked at the suggestion, but was given exactly no time to answer before Bruce let go.

“No!” he yelped, reaching after the hands that had held him steady. “Wait, sir, I can’t—”

Already flailing, his arms wheeled in the air as he felt himself beginning to tip backwards.

“Bruce!”

The solid impact of ice never came. Instead, two arms curled around his shoulders. They hauled him up and set him steady again between one blink and the next.

“Sorry,” Bruce apologized sheepishly. “You were doing so well, I wanted to give you a chance to skate on your own.”

Automatically, Tim’s hands had curled tightly into Bruce’s jacket. Now that the danger of falling was past, he knew he was supposed to let go, yet he just couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Tim buried his face into the black and grey scarf again and inhaled the man’s calming scent instead.

It was only when his master prompted him with his name, that he reluctantly unfurled his fingers and released the folds of his jacket.

“That was scary,” he admitted shyly, making Bruce obviously crane to catch his soft words.

A solid hand ran through the length of his curls, the unexpected, albeit gentle touch surprising him.

“Sorry,” Bruce apologized again. “I won’t let you fall, Tim. Trust me, I’ve got you. I promise.” 

_ Why did he have to sound so earnest, so genuine? _

Tim tipped up his head and met dark grey eyes splashed with honesty so raw it was downright painful to look at.

“Okay,” he agreed with a nod. “I trust you.”

Around the pond once more they went.

* * *

The dark months of the year eventually gave way to the light as Earth continued on her axis, bringing them into spring.

However, winter was a surly woman and refused to entirely relinquish her grip during the night. Tim’s room was one of the few that did not have central heating and while Alfred had given him a space heater to fight off the chill like a gallant knight against an impossible foe, some evenings it was nowhere near enough.

It was one such night, one where Tim felt the chill right down to his wiring, that he decided he couldn’t stand the slight gust of freezing wind slipping between the crack under the windowsill.

It was very late. Late enough that neither Alfred nor Bruce would be up, in spite of the latter being a self-proclaimed night owl.

Unable to stand the cold keeping him awake any longer, Tim grumpily pulled the quilt off his bed and over his head. Sliding his feet into the slippers sitting on the floor, he made for the door and started on his journey down to the lower level of the manor.

Silent as a ghost, he took the main flight of stairs to the lower hall and made his way to the theatre room—the best room, he’d discovered during the winter months, to spend the night in.

It would be warm in there. There were no windows and only one door, plus it would have spent the day being warmed by the heating, unlike Tim’s broom-cupboard old room. The chairs inside were big enough to be called recliners, and while they sometimes left him with an awful crick in his neck, it was better than getting no sleep at all.

Fully expecting to find it quiet and empty, his feet came to a standstill at the threshold of the door.

There was some noir mobster film playing on screen, the sound down low.

Tentatively, when he could spot no figure in any of the seats, he stepped inside. Maybe Bruce had accidentally left it running when he’d gone to bed…?

A voice from behind as he entered immediately disproved that theory.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?”

It was a miracle he didn’t jump five feet in the air.

Tim whirled, eyes coming to rest on Bruce, clad in a soft sweater and sweatpants, form reclining on the seat second from the door.

He shook his head. “Cold,” he explained, too tired to put a full sentence together. “Draughty.”

Silently, Bruce appraised him. Then, “you look like a babushka doll all wrapped up like that.”

Tim… didn’t know what that meant. “What’s that?” he asked quizzically, earning a smirk from Bruce as the man wordlessly dismissed the statement with a shake of his head and a short snort.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replied, lifting an arm in wordless invitation.

If Tim had been more awake, maybe he would have hesitated at accepting the offer so readily, but as it was he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to just get warm and fall asleep.

Slippered feet padded softly across the carpet and Tim lowered himself onto the seat right beside Bruce, an arm dropping down around his shoulders.

It was kind and it was easy and Tim didn’t have to think about it. It was just nice to pretend he could have this always, even if it was only for one night.

“Thank you, sir,” he offered up around a yawn, settling down into the crook of Bruce’s arm.

The ghost of a breath gusted over his curls.

“Just Bruce, Tim,” he muttered lowly, arm tightening its grip infinitesimally. “It’s just Bruce.” 

Except, to the sound of mobsters drawling away between cigar puffs on screen, he’d already begun to drift off.

Even so, Tim could have sworn he felt a hand run the length of his locks and a very faint voice whisper something about love.

* * *

The heart was giving them trouble.

Bruce cursed. Loudly, violently, and explicitly. The words cut through the comfortable silence that kept them company in the cave, for once Tim too lost in concentration to keep up a steady stream of chatter.

Backed into the little corner of the workshop he had claimed as his own, Tim flinched wildly at the out-of-the-blue outburst. Sometimes Bruce got like this when Jason was giving him grief, but never had he heard the man release such profanity before.

As though the fit had completely drained him of energy, Bruce fell back into his chair, sagging lowly as he brought both hands up to cover his face. There was two day old stubble there and the bags under his eyes alluded to another night with restless dreams. Frankly, he looked exhausted.

Keeping his head down, Tim continued to fiddle away with the mark seven prototype heart in his hand, the mark eight currently resting on Bruce’s larger workshop bench.

The seventh prototype was still far too heavy to be of any use to Jason. The valves were troubling him. At best, all the heavy heart could do would be to sustain an already operational robot for a couple of hours.

However, it just didn’t have the juice to revive one already gone.

“Damn it all to hell,” Bruce mumbled through his fingers, angry and sad and filled with audible grief. “Help me out here, Jay.”

From beneath his eyelashes, Tim peered up. “Is there anything I can help with, sir?” he asked meekly.

A harsh, loud sigh echoed through the cave. It wasn’t a nice sound. It made the hairs on the back of Tim’s neck stand to attention.

“Ten months,” said the man, too sharp an edge in his tone for Tim to deem it safe. “Ten months and what do we have to show for ourselves? Eight prototypes. Eight hearts.  _ And none of them work!” _

Bruce stood then, taking up the eighth prototype into his hand. Tim made the mistake of thinking the man was simply weighing it.

Without warning, the heart went soaring. Bruce threw it, putting all his weight behind the arc, and it collided hard with the wall.

Tim’s jaw clamped shut with an audible click, a by-product of his full-body flinch as he recoiled into his corner.

The resounding noise of the heart shattering into millions of tiny pieces echoed loudly in the silence that followed.

It shouldn’t have been unexpected that Bruce would turn to him next, yet to Tim, who had settled in too much, who had started to think of Wayne Manor of his home and its occupants as his family, it was.

Stupid.  _ Stupid.  _ He should have known better. Jack Drake’s nasty snarl swam in his vision, a flashback from a time long ago.

“You  _ promised me  _ my son would be back with us in a year,” he began, close to a yell. A raised index finger pointed harshly in Tim’s direction. “You said you could  _ fix  _ him, but how far have we made it? For every one step forward it’s two steps back. Jason’s  _ gone  _ and every day I—.”

Around the seventh heart, Tim’s fingers trembled and his breath hitched. Ten months and not once in all that time had Bruce hit him, not once in all that time had Tim seen the face of Jack Drake appear overlaid upon Bruce’s own.

_ “Go,”  _ Bruce shouted, eyes promptly spilling out tears, hot and thick and wet. “Get out of my sight.”

In a panic, and without any second thoughts, Tim fled the room. He ran as fast as his feet would carry him, flying out of the workshop at break-neck pace.

Up the stone steps he sprinted, into the study he ran. He skidded past Alfred in the hall, who called after him with no small amount of confusion. Tim didn’t stop running though, not until he was securely locked behind his bedroom door. 

In his chest, he could feel his own heart racing.

In his throat, his breath hitched.

In his hand, the metal heart lay still and lifeless.

* * *

Almost every day for ten months Tim had come down to the cave. Almost every day for ten months he had greeted Jason’s lifeless body.

It was early. Much too early for Bruce to yet be awake.

It seemed odd and definitely surreal to be in the cave without him.

Tim had not gone down for dinner last night, not even after Alfred’s tentative knock.

“Master Tim,” he had tried, the softness in his voice already telling Tim he knew what had happened. “Will you come down for casserole?”

With his head buried in his knees and his voice thick with fear and anxiety and hopeless, Tim hadn’t bothered to reply. 

“Master Bruce is sorry for shouting at you,” he’d continued softly. “I think he would like to apologize, if you’ll let him.”

Arms wound tightly around his knees, Tim had remained unmoved and, eventually, Alfred had gone away and left him alone. They always left him alone in the end, this time would be no different.

Carefully clutching the heart in his hand, he made his way through the cave until he was seated by Jason’s bedside. 

The familiar scene greeted him as though yesterday had changed nothing.

Tim didn’t know when it had happened, when he had deluded himself into thinking Bruce might want him here. Irrationally, at some stage, he obviously had.

Tim always had been foolish and naïve, it was in his core programming.

“Good morning, Jason,” he murmured, smiling down at the other boy.

Ten months. 

The RCO would never give him a third chance.

Bruce would send him back and he would continue to grieve.

At somewhere close to midnight, the idea had hit him gently as a sack of bricks.

Tim was under no illusions. Yesterday had been the beginning of the end. The signs were all there, he recognized them. He’d been through this before with the Drake’s, he knew what to look for.

Bruce had promised him a year. That didn’t mean Tim was going to get one. People promised a lot of things they didn’t mean, and if he was only going to get one shot, this would be it.

It was a last resort, but what did Tim need a heart for anyway? To the gallows he marched.

Gently, he slipped a hand behind Jason’s ear and pressed down the button there. The boy’s exposed chest slid away, skin peeling back to reveal the circuitry beneath.

The heart in his hand suddenly felt heavy, much heavier than the one that was physically pumping away inside his own android chest.

With the true and genuine, it was easy to slip the heart into the empty space. It fit like a glove and clicked in place without a problem.

This would be his last gift, he could give Bruce back his son. Carefully, he pulled out the feeding tube and ditched the few wires that connected Jason to the monitor behind him, meant to run diagnostics with every new heart they inserted.

Tim wouldn’t need that this time, he knew for certain  _ this  _ heart would work.

Jason’s chest closed with a click. The effect was almost immediate. Dark eyelashes fluttered open slowly while Tim sat back on his work stool with a tired smile.

Jason Peter Todd-Wayne turned his head and dark-blue green met exhausted blue-grey. 

The boy’s brow furrowed.

“Who are you?” an alley accent asked, so different from Tim’s upper Gothamite, yet so strikingly familiar all at once. “Where’s B?”

Tim levered himself up with no small amount of effort and stuck out his hand for what he hoped would be the last time.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Tim.”

“Jason,” was returned.

Tim was running out of time.

“I know,” he replied, the smile at the corners of his lips dipping slightly as his body struggled to keep up. “I heard all about you from Master Bruce.”

Jason blinked at him. The slightly older boy took him in, silently pegging him as a robo-child too. 

“You’re like me,” Jason breathed, the flash of hurt quick to appear and quick to be masked. “Did Bruce adopt you?”

For once, Tim was pleased to be able to answer that with a resounding no. Jason would think Tim was here to replace him, but Bruce had been very clear that Jason could never be replaced—and certainly not by the likes of  _ Tim. _

“It’s a long story,” he sighed, “not one we have time for I’m afraid.”

It would be nice to go out with some degree of dignity. 

Turning his back on Jason, he headed for the wall of the cave, sliding down it’s rocky surface in one uncomfortable motion. It hurt, but it wouldn’t matter soon.

Obviously perplexed by this strange boy, Jason swung his legs over the side of the bed and, after a moment of what appeared to be vertigo, followed after Tim and dropped to his knees.

Jason’s hand brushed up against his forehead, possibly looking for signs of overheating.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, panicked, eyes roaming all over Tim’s face. “Are you, uh, ill or something? Can androids  _ get  _ sick?”

A laugh bubbled out of Tim at that. Or as close to a laugh as his aching, dying body would allow. It probably came out as more of a wheeze.

“I’m not sick,” he shared honestly, already reaching for the button behind his own ear. With a press, his chest clicked open and Tim made to unbutton his shirt so that Jason could see inside.

“You have my heart.”

There, nestled inside his chest, the mark seven beat away. It wasn’t long for this world either. A few more minutes was all it would give him, at most.

Jason’s jaw dropped and he stared, agape. The boy was so shocked, so  _ aghast,  _ he was obviously struggling to find words.

Tim was too tired to answer any of the unspoken questions anyway.

“Rule number three,” Jason suddenly blurted out of nowhere, confusion and anxious panic beginning to overtake his actions. Tim couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him. It wasn’t every day you were forced to watch someone die, even if that someone was a stranger to you. “A robot has to protect its own existence except in the case where the rule will conflict with the first two laws.”

Tim lifted his chin weakly. “Rule number one,” he countered with a wheeze. “A robot cannot not injure a human or through inaction allow harm to come to a human.”

The bewildered puzzlement shot Jason’s eyebrows straight up into his hairline, his eyes wide and pupils shot.

“Bruce loves you,” Tim explained, taking pity as his eyes began to close of their own volition. “He was hurting. More than I think you will ever know.”

The heat radiating off Jason’s body was a wonderful thing after months upon months of corpse cold rigur. It was the sun to Tim’s own numb fingers as the boy took his hand into his own.

“I tried so hard to help him, to bring him happiness,” he continued as a whisper, “but the only person who could do that was  _ you.” _

The  _ thud thud thud  _ in his chest began to stutter, the world to dull around the edges. Tim’s time was upon him.

Maybe the older boy did say something after that, but with a content sigh, Tim let the darkness claim him without a fight.

If androids dreamt of electric sheep, what did dead robots do?

**Author's Note:**

> If I've missed any tags, please let me know!


End file.
